Page 97 of Best Kept Secret

The kitchen was hot, the kind of heat that clung to your skin, making it hard to tell where the steam ended and you began. The clatter of pans and knives, the hiss of flames, the sharp sound of chopping—it was music to me. A rhythm I hadn't felt in so long. A rhythm I had nearly forgotten.

If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be learning from a Michelin-star chef in Savannah, I would've laughed. Laughed and then walked away because dreams like this weren't for people like me. They were for people who had their lives together, people who hadn't been broken into pieces and still trying to glue themselves back together.

But now…now I was here. And it was all because of Beau.

Chef Gervais was an older man, mid-50s, with salt-and-pepper hair, sharp blue eyes, and a permanent scowl etched into his face. But beneath the gruff exterior, there was a patience I hadn't expected. He was quick with criticism, but he was just as quick with praise when something was done right. And when he worked, it was like watching a master painter, every movement intentional, precise.

"Watch your knife skills," he barked at me, glancing over at my cutting board as I diced shallots. "You're wasting time with those slow chops."

I bit my lip, nodding, and picked up the pace, trying to match his speed. He made everything look effortless, and I knew it wasn't. Not really. He had spent years honing this craft, and I was just at the beginning.

But God, it felt good to be in this kitchen, to be learning again, to be alive again.

This was just another thing Beau had done without making a big deal out of it. And now, I was standing in front of Chef Gervais, wide-eyed and nervous, wondering what the hell I was doing there.

"Heard a lot about you," Chef Gervais had said when I walked in for my first Saturday. "Beau says you've got talent. We'll see if he's right."

Talent. It was strange hearing that word again, attached tome. I had forgotten what it felt like to be good at something, to be recognized for something beyond just existing. And Beau…he had believed in me, even when I couldn't. He had gone out of his way to find this opportunity, to put in a good word with Gervais, a chef who didn't take on apprentices lightly.

Beau hadn't given up on me. Even after I had pushed him away, even after I told him we couldn't be what we were before, he was still there. He didn't push for more. He didn't ask foranything in return. He just…cared. And I didn't know how to feel about that. Part of me wanted to run from it, from his belief in me. Another part of me, though, was grateful in a way I couldn't quite put into words.

"Better," Chef Gervais said, grunting, looking over my work. "Now, get the sauce started. I want that reduction done in twenty minutes."

"Yes, Chef," I said, moving quickly to the stove.

As I worked, I felt the familiar rhythm of cooking take over. The way my hands moved on their own, the way I could taste the dish in my mind before it even hit the pan—it was instinctual, like breathing. And for the first time in months, I felt like I wasn't just going through the motions—I wasn't just surviving—I was living.

By the time I plated the dish—duck breast with a cherry-balsamic reduction and caramelized shallots—my hands were steady, my heart calm. I placed the plate in front of Chef Gervais, stepping back and waiting for his critique. His eyes scanned the dish, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the plate as he inspected every detail. He picked up a fork and knife and tasted my creation.

He didn't say anything for a long time, and the silence stretched, pulling tight between us. My stomach knotted, the nerves creeping back in.

Finally, he looked up with a small, approving nod. "Not bad, Mira. Not bad at all."

It wasn't high praise, but coming from him, it felt like I'd just been handed a gold medal. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "Thank you, Chef."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, the scowl returning. "You've got a lot more to learn."

I nodded, but inside, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time: pride—not just in the dish but in myself. I was getting better—slowly but surely.

As I packed up my knives at the end of the day, wiping down the counters and scrubbing the cutting boards, Chef Gervais came over, his voice lower than usual. "You've got potential, Mira. Beau was right. I'll see you next Saturday."

I blinked, nodding. "Thank you," I managed, though the words felt too small for what I wanted to say, not just to him but to Beau. He had put me here, in this kitchen. He had seen something in me I hadn't even seen in myself.

When I got home, I found a note from Beau on my doorstep. I picked it up, leaning against the doorframe as I opened it.

I hope your first day went well. Pari's been asking if you can make herkhichurithis weekend. No pressure. Just thought you should know.

My heart clenched at the familiar handwriting. He never asked for anything. Never made it about him. It was always about me—my dreams, my life, my healing.

I wanted to write back, to tell him how much it meant to me, how much his steady presence had helped me find pieces of myself again. But I didn't. Not yet. Instead, I tucked the note into my bag, the way I had done with all the others, and smiled to myself.

The next Saturday, I was back in Chef Gervais's kitchen. The heat, the clatter of pans, the sizzle of oil—this was where I belonged. This was what I had always wanted. And Beau…Beau had made it possible.

Maybe I wasn't ready to give him what he wanted. Maybe I wasn't ready to let my heart fully trust again. But I was ready to acknowledge what he had done for me.

He was still there, quietly in the background, making sure I didn't fall. And, maybe one day, I'd be ready to meet him there.But for now, I was grateful. Grateful in a way that didn't need words, only actions.

I'd make Parikhichuri. Very soon. Because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could.

---